


Saved

by baudown



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Pining, Terrible at tagging, Xander POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:54:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baudown/pseuds/baudown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Season 4 AU.  Why Xander doesn't want Spike to stay in the basement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saved

**Author's Note:**

>  This happened today, while working on something that's had me stuck in the same spot, endlessly tinkering, for days.  So I'm using this as an exercise in finishing something fast, and letting go of it.  Forgive it its flaws.

 

Disclaimer:  I didn't make them, and I don't own them.  But I love them.  


 

 

 

I said no, not here. Not with me.

I said no, because I was afraid.

Not of what he might do to me. Not that he might hurt me. But that proximity might allow him to see. The wonder of it, that he hadn't seen, already. That no one had, but me.

And now, nothing but these few paces separating us, and words. Distance closing. So hard to look, so hard to look away. My eyes on him, every moment. Am I hiding it?

The black and white of him. The sharpness of his angles, the looseness of his limbs. The obscenities spilling from the mouth of an angel. The tightness of muscle beneath yielding skin. Everything extreme, opposite, perfection. Ruinous. And the thing that vibrates around him, or from him, that begs to be touched, that would burn me if I tried.

Rope against skin and cotton, so beautiful, it hurts the eye. The gift of being the one to place it there. The mesmerizing repetition as it wraps around -- one, two, three, four times -- like a ritual. Like prayer. Like doing penance for the sin of impure thoughts. The sin, or the blessing.

If I kneel, head bowed, at his feet. If I lie upon the ground, worshipping, a supplicant. Would he lay hands upon me, then? Would I be healed? Or would it kill me?

Did his thighs tremble, as I stripped the cloth away? He was hard, already. I think it was for me. The wetness there, for me. The juddering sigh as my hand closes around him. The surprise of breath stirring my hair, the hand clasping my neck. The sudden illumination: this, the purpose of my mouth, my tongue, my throat. The smell of him, so faint, but he tastes dark and bitter, when he comes. That's part of him, inside me, now. And when I come, too, like a boy, without being touched, that's how strong it is. How strong he is. If I could just die, now, feeling this way, please, Spike.

I lay my cheek upon his hip, and it's sharp, so I can feel it. My arms around his waist, holding on. I won't drown. Whatever happens now, if there's shame, and pain, if he recoils from me, if there's so much more I desire, but can never have, I've had this.

And then his hand, and from his lips, my name. 


End file.
